Those Crazy Kids

He had only floated near the piano for a scant few minutes, but there was an imminent tumble of words about him. He was waiting for me to finish the song with a loud modesty. If a 7 year old boy could look 70, he did.

His left fingertips were clutched by his right hand over his stomach, wispy white hair a little strewn and his face had a genial hang to it. He approached my elbow as I wrapped up the tune early for him, sensing an end before the final chord.

'The two women I'm sitting with,' he said, amiable, a tremor in his voice. Shy to a fault?, I wondered. No. Gentle.

'The two women, with you and the other gentleman, at the end of the banquette...' I gestured with my eyes.

'Right,' he nodded. 'We're all from North Carolina. He's my husband, we've been together for 42 years and got married here in New York just last year because, y'know, we love this city...'

'Of course.'

'...and it's not legal where we live.'

'Another excellent reason,' I said.

'Though', and here he cupped a hand around his mouth to block out the world, 'We're fighting that!'

'Successfully too,' I grinned.

'So those women are our dear friends,' he went on, the lilt of drawl sneaking through, 'And they've been together for 49 years...'

'Christ, there's an achievement!'

'...I know! And today they got married down at City Hall. When I go back to the table, I'd like to bring them back to the piano, and could you play something lovely and romantic for them?'

He had leaned a little on the piano lid at the end, as if to keep a secret no one else was close enough to overhear, but the secret was newborn so he protected it. I watched his eyes go filmy, heard his voice teeter at the end. And even if it was 3/4 emotion and 1/4 wine, you still wanted to help the voice get sturdy and the eyes to get drier. He was so harmless he nearly got on your nerves.

I loaned him a good smile and told him I'd be happy to. A bright nod, and he hurried to get them.

It took a few minutes. I spun a tune out a little to buy time, but they sauntered up.

The ladies were in their 70s as well. One was a little bullet-shaped, wore thick glasses. When she unveiled it, her grin was sunny and wide and jokey. She gestured little and her walk to the piano was lumbering. Some people conserve themselves. I wondered if her knees were bad. The other was more spindly, sharp-eyed and nimble and chatty. She had the look of a retired school nurse.

'49 years,' I muttered to the spindly one.

'Can't really believe it myself. 49 years and only got married today,' she said, with an ironic tilt to her head.

'Maybe you just wanted to make sure she was the one. Can't rush into these things,' I said, and her head bunched into her neck while she guffawed.

'Oh we made sure!' she said, eyes crinkled in humor.

The first song that came to mind was 'I Love You (For Sentimental Reasons)', so I went with that. The 4 of them flanked the piano on either side. It made me happy to see light smiles, or if not, that easy reflective set of the face while they listened. The spindly school nurse inaudibly sang along.

When it was done they clapped and nodded thanks. The man who'd initiated dropped a 10 in my glass. I had to ask their story.

'Well,' started the spindly one, '49 years ago we met while both living at the Y in Philadelphia. They kicked us out...'

'They thought we were sharing too much...' mumbled the bullet-shaped one with some lean humor.

'...so we left and I found a studio for rent in Philly and I was nervous but I asked her if she'd like to share the expenses and she said yes. So we moved in together. And I mean we had nothing, NOTHING, so we had to go to my father's and borrow two old army cots and we slept on those for more than two months in that studio.'

'Tough on the back,' I said.

The bullet-shaped one groaned.

'But over time we moved and found a one bedroom and a few years later a two bedroom and then years after that we bought a house, and God knows how but we made it work and were able to make a home,' said the spindly one, hoisting her hands up, as if she found her own life story still a mystery.

Their story had an earned calm. You seldom hear that because so few are confident enough not to push for that sound.

I'd stood up behind the piano by now and leaned on my elbows to join the congress of faces over the shiny black top. From 4 points there was warmth, pride, but also steel. Gentility was not weakness with them.

'Nearly 50 years, my God,' I said. 'I can scarcely manage a few weeks,' I told them, and looked at each.

The husband who hadn't yet spoken piped up from out of nowhere, a commanding and rangy type.

'That's up to you,' he said in a sure baritone. 'You have to choose to have it, in advance. You've got to make that choice while it's just you. Work on that. Or else it won't change. Learn that.'

I blinked.

What do you say to the person who challenges you to make a great feast, when all you've ever done is boil eggs? You say you will, and privately hope to hell you have the knack.

I shook all their hands and wished them luck and thanked them for livening my night, which they had. They walked away from the piano and shouldered into the rain. I sat on my bench and saw the light waves of strangers at a sympathetic other they won't meet again.  

© Eric Yves Garcia 2014